


Venice

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-The Dark Knight Rises, Power Dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You come to an old man and tell him that he isn't quite as old as he says, expecting him to then share the hidden knowledge carved in the wrinkles upon his forehead. No, I don't have your answers. But it'd be shameful if you'd come all this way for my whiskey and a light show."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cadkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/gifts).



> Fictraded some porn. Fandom challenges are nice; I've certainly never been here before. I'm too much of a Bane fanboy to properly function, it seems, because I nearly missed a golden opportunity there.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

There was no hour during which Venice could have slept, not even the early hours when the sky was at its darkest and Blake, well, Blake was hanging on the wall, trying to scout out the alarm system. Because, he reasoned, there had to be a working one. He just didn't see it. Why was that?  
 _Think, damnit. You can do better than this._

The issue wasn't that he didn't seean alarm system. In fact, he saw plenty. The problem was they were all either decoys or simply turned off, and he couldn't tell the difference. Was it a trap?  
Was he really walking into a trap?  
Knowing Bruce Wayne, it seemed likely. Too likely.  
Much more likely than the alarm system having failed, anyway.

With a quiet, held-back breath he moved to the left and disarmed the alarm he'd found from the window. He'd expected that to trigger the rest, but he could still see _nothing_ inside, not even with his scanner; they truly were not working.

Worry settled inside him, although he refused to acknowledge it. Bruce had done his damn best making sure no one followed him. Blake was quite certain he was the first to find out, well, unless he'd allowed himself to be seen by someone - certainly, surely at least the first to follow his near-invisible trail throughout Europe.

Of course he hadn't wasted his time chasing around a ghost in the physical world, but there were some markers he'd expected the dead millionaire to leave in his wake, and once those had started popping up... there wasn't much left for him to do but to add them up in the safety of the Batcave and then take a vacation. Fighting crime, as important as it was, could wait until he'd made a certain respectful burglary. It wasn't for valuables or technology, simply for information; for peace of mind.

He entered the apartment knowing he was expected. There was no other reason. Bruce had known he was after him. Perhaps... perhaps he'd invited him.  
Blake swallowed and closed the window behind him. The alarm system turned on.

  
*

  
Bruce Wayne stood at the top of the stairs and watched his guest enter. He clenched his jaw and his fingers felt sweaty against the fine wood of the railing, and ever so slightly he leaned forwards in the shadows to see the other move in his silent apartment. Through his teeth he drew a hiss of a breath, but the young man did not pick up on it. He still had a lot to learn.  
A familiar headache drilled at the back of the older's head but he ignored it decisively.  
 _Not today_ , he told it calmly, _Not until I've reclaimed my right to retirement._

When Blake approached, the older man moved silently away from the stairs, backing into a wall by an open door. He stayed there and waited; the steady red flash of his decoy alarm kept him company as he listened to his guest take steps along the stairs. His chest ached, and so did the ear that had taken damage in the last fight for Gotham's safety. In a moment's time it blast into a full-blown tinnitus that whistled through the silence and prevented him from hearing Blake's movements properly, yet despite the impairment, he was still well aware of where the man moved, as sooner rather than later his profile appeared to the end of the stairs.

As expected, he did not spot Bruce from where he was hiding.

For a man with his reputation, he surely was holding back when he entered the home of one of the few he should have feared: after all, Blake out of all people should have expected a paranoid wreck to greet him.  
Bruce was just that, but not when he invited guests over.  
  
Did the younger still believe he'd gotten in by a strike of luck? That the alarms did not pick up on him because of how he'd triggered the timer on the window?  
Bruce smiled.  
Of course he did not.

"Bruce?"

Blake stepped past him and craned his neck to see in the bedroom.

"It's a terrible time to visit, but..."

One, two, three...  
The lights turned on with a bright yellow flash, and Bruce stepped out of his hiding place like he'd never been there in the first place before Blake had the chance to turn and find him.  
He wore a pleasant smile, but the quirkiness of it shone from his weary eyes.

"Night," he said dismissively, "seems poetically like the perfect time for us to shake hands."  
He held out his and the still stunned man in front of him took it and shook it. He had a firm grip and a shy smile.

"Were you even trying?"  
  


*

Bruce didn't serve him coffee or tea, he served whiskey and watched Blake struggle with downing it; it seemed to burn much harder than the type he usually had. Could have been that he was simply nervous, unable to think beyond how the older was taking the sight of him in, but as usual - as _always_ \- Bruce wore the mask that covered his brainwork. It was that polite smile, the sweet way with words and the barely noticeable twitch on the side of his face when he leaned onto the wrong leg. All an act, that much Blake knew, but what it hid behind was next to impossible to tell as long as he wasn't giving out anything but the small talk.

Then, when they finally arrived at the point, Blake still couldn't tell.  
Bruce had followed him, and of course he'd known this. From the moment he'd realised the other was still alive, he'd known he was being watched, and not by just anyone but by a mentor, someone who'd taught him much but then retired from the view to see how he'd do in the field.

Robin's work was undeniably good, but it was far from flawless. They both knew this. The issue wasn't whether the legendary Batman had taken note of the clumsiness in the picture he'd left for the younger to paint but rather if he saw it as a map, a guide to where to guide him next, or if instead it appeared as a grotesque showcasing of Blake's failure in filling his shoes.  
  
He drank more whiskey, got a little drunk. No answers were received, no proper questions spoken. Blake tried his best to extract anything at all but with dulling senses, he found himself unable to even grasp at straws.  
One thing he did notice.  
He was still the boy that had looked up to this man, still the same young man who had lost breath at the sight of the masked vigilante. And some hopeful part in him saw Bruce looking at him with some kind of fondness, finding no shades of anger or disappointment in his eyes whatsoever.

The older reached for the whiskey and found it empty. When he turned, Blake shivered, fearing another glass would bash through his carefully-prepared fronts and reveal the idiot inside.  
Bruce lifted a bottle and examined it against the light.  
"It's a good brand," he spoke, "but I think you're tired of pretending you are just one of the rich pretenders I had to entertain once, Robin. So it comes down to this: why'd you accept the invitation?"

Blake grimaced. He picked himself up from the table and pretended he wasn't anxious, that his heart wasn't racing - that he hadn't lived his whole life for this moment.  
"You know what I've done. You left me everything. I've tried to do with it the best I could. I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm not you. But I've guarded the city, kept it safe, made sure it's the right people that get locked up and that those who try to abuse power stay away from it. And by day, I keep up a front. The only thing I want to know... The only thing I came to hear is if that's improvable. If I've at least - lived up to some standard."

Bruce eyed him curiously. For a moment he remained silent, reaching to open the bottle that he'd nearly discarded. He filled himself a glass and walked back to Blake, then filled his glass as well. They drank at the same time, eyes locked.  
"Improvable?" the dead millionaire asked, amused.

Blake hesitated.

"Up to 'some standard'."  
He seemed to be tasting the words like he was tasting the whiskey.  
"Yes," he said then, "Yes, I'd say you'd lived up to some standard. One I wouldn't have expected, even. And not in the bad, so you can stop assuming the worst."  
  
The heat on the younger's cheeks was not a result of the alcohol, as strong and good as it was.  
"At this point," Bruce continued, "I think I should say something clichéd, something dry; like that you remind me of myself but, thank the gods, you do not right now remind me of myself at all. Instead I'll say that I find your work inspiring."  
  
Blake backed into the chair; suddenly his legs did not seem to work properly, and he had that stupid smile on him that he'd tried to avoid. As a flaming bonus, yes, he was blushing.  
Where did this man get his charm?

"Improvable is another thing I found curious."  
Bruce sat down on the table instead of on the chair, but somehow managed to do that gracefully like it hadn't been against any etiquette at all.  
"Improvable. It implies that you came here to hear the worst in you. There's more. It implies you're looking for guidance; for someone to help you improve. That's interesting, Robin, because I think you're doing good for yourself - filling up the shoes nicely."

"I disagree."

"Do you, now?"

The eye contact they shared was at the same time threatening and exciting.

"All I mean is that you were - you were better than I am."

"Of course. I'm nearly twice your age."

It was Blake's turn to give the older an unimpressed look.  
"Not quite."

"Not quite. Nearly. It means you're limber, fast and yes, improvable indeed."  
Bruce's hand found its way on Blake's shoulder, finger sliding along the fabric of his shirt.  
"Unmarred, not yet as broken and bitter as myself. What did you expect from me, really?"

Blake opened his mouth but his brain wasn't co-operating anymore. It wasn't the drink, it was the older man and all the daydreams he'd packed with him when he'd left the boy's home and for a while pretended to be the man himself.  
"Answers," he finally managed to breathe out, "Something to - somewhere to go from here."

"Well."  
The man's hand slid off his shoulder and Bruce let out a laughter that accompanied the cold that gathered by the point he'd abandoned.  
"I'm insightless in this matter, Robin John Blake. You come to an old man and tell him that he isn't quite as old as he says, expecting him to then share the hidden knowledge carved in the wrinkles upon his forehead. No, I don't have your answers. But it'd be shameful if you'd come all this way for my whiskey and a light show."  
  


*

The stairs that led upstairs were like climbing the Mount Everest itself. Blake's feet got stuck on every other step and he didn't have a clue how Bruce navigated them so easily - did he often walk backwards, both hands preoccupied with needy clutching of another's closely cropped hair, mouth locked with that of a man's? Did his head not swim with the quality of his golden drinks, the words he'd spoken, the rushing of his blood and the beating of his heart that Blake wished he could have heard through the drumming of his own?  
  
The younger had little clue how this had come to this, yet he didn't care. The embrace of a dead man was much different to what he'd been allowed to expect. When he fell upon the bed, somehow now facing the direction from which they'd come from, his blood was split between his burning face and the other sort of a heat his pants no longer had to contain when Bruce's hand slipped down upon the belt, the button and the zipper and did away with them all.  
He was gasping for air as his fingers removed the shirt from the older's shoulders, running it down his shapely arms until Bruce discarded it himself; his eyes took in the sight of the multiple scars over the man's body, barely noticing his own hips reaching for the touch of the other's hand until he got just that. The grip, the tug and the push through the black fabric of his boxers made Blake throw his head back and yelp, then laugh. He reached a hand to pull the older's hair, brought him into a violent kiss and released him only to climb back up on his feet to get his own shirt off.  
Bruce watched him, lips parted to let out his heavy breath and fingers dangling by his open belt, and when Blake had gotten enough of it - enough of being appreciated for his shape with the hunger of eyes and not the mouth, not the touch - he moved in to get rid of the whole damn obstacle woven between them for the sake of social convenience.

Unthinking, he brought his lips to the tip of the older's sex and was about to take him in like that, but Bruce let out a breathless laughter and pushed him back.  
"One would think you'd take protection a little more seriously," the man joked.

There was no embarrasment in Blake's grin.  
"Fair point."  
  
Bruce moved to the drawer and fumbled around without bothering to turn on the light: he seemed familiar with what he was doing.  
  
"I hope I didn't get a strawberry."

The younger closed his eyes and tried not to choke on the laughter he didn't know how to let out.  
"So... you have a collection."

"Accidental, but yes, somehow - I'm afraid I won't be having enough sex in my life to use them all. Shame, since they're all rather good quality."

Blake dared to breathe, if only to make sure the alcohol wouldn't get to him more than it already had.  
"Can I say something?"

"I don't recall telling you not to. Actually, I'd prefer it."

The older seemed to be done with rolling down the hopefully not strawberry flavoured condom that Blake couldn't bring himself to look at, not even in the relative darkness surrounding them in the room with a single covered window.

"I don't care if it's strawberry."

"Your loss."

The feel of the slightly wet surface of the condom didn't take away the heat of the flesh underneath when Blake wrapped his fingers around the shaft and leaned forwards again, this time much less like a starving man reaching for a loaf of bread and more like a well-behaved, civilized lover. He brought his lips around the older's cock (it did not taste of strawberry) and allowed it to enter his mouth, his still free hand moving from the other's thigh to the bone of his hip instead, finding the pit of his tailbone when he moved forwards and feeling the shape of his body with curiosity and desire as he sought for the perfect place to anchor himself onto. He wasn't a first-timer, but a while had passed since the last time he'd gone down on a man; Bruce wasn't one of the smaller guys and taking him took a little time for adjusting, for finding the rythm and the depth and the trail for his tongue all alike. He was a patient man however, one who seemed to enjoy the process as much as the outcome, and Blake felt that once he got there, once he relaxed, he did a fairly good job at pleasing him.

His own sex throbbed between his legs, pressing against his thigh and then his lower stomach and then his thigh again depending on where he was leaning. He didn't touch it - couldn't - and Bruce was too high up to do anything about it, but the situation on its own was so arousing that he occasionally feared it would prove to be too much so.

The shivers and the held-back motions of Bruce's hips against the grip that Blake had of him told a very detailed story of how close he was when he reached a hand to gently but firmly push the younger away and all the way onto the bed. Now his fingers wound around the thick, aching hardness of the younger's and massaged him with long, lingering movements, making him tremble and moan and search for nothing in particular from the other man's hands.  
Blake would have returned it, but instead his fingers found a tube left on the bed at some damned point that he'd entirely missed, causing him to first wonder why would anyone leave a tube of toothpaste in their bed and then, after figuring out it was most definitely not toothpaste, whether he was allowed to put it into use or if it was just waiting there.  
Realising there wasn't much he could lose, he asked.

"It's more of a suggestion, really."

"Good," he grunted, popping the tube open and hastily spreading the lube over his fingers.

Bruce moved to his side, teeth nipping at his neck and hand still moving along his cock as he reached down, pushing up his hips to make room for his hand. Now this, this hadn't been all too long since the last incident; his fingers knew their way about his flesh, pressing inside as the older's hand slowed down from his previously already calm movements to give him time to enjoy the sensation without crossing a line.  
Blake forced himself calm as well, taking his time to just try and understand what the hell had happened that had landed him here - a lone breathless, hoarse chuckle left his throat as he realised he was actually bedding the Batman, or more accurately, it seemed that the Batman was bedding him. Out of all the ways he'd imagined his trip to Venice would end with, this had never even crossed his mind.  
It wasn't unpleasant and it wasn't unwanted, simply unexpected, and the realisation of the absurdity of it all made the younger man feel a little more present where he was. This would definitely be one of the things he'd want to remember in detail.  
  
Early morning light was pressing against the window. He could see it where he lay with his back arching and legs spreading, and Bruce followed his eyes towards the white frames of his covered window.  
"We're facing the sunrise?" Blake asked, finding his voice barely working.

"It's directly across the canal from the window, but the buildings cover the best part. I like to take walks at this hour."

"Mmh."  
Blake rose up and rolled over the older. Bruce allowed him there, guiding his body over his with his touch as if it had been possible for the other to get lost on the way.  
"Take me," Blake heard himself breathe out hoarsely and pressed his hips down against the man's sex.  
They had a steady eye contact, the challenging kind that found its match at both ends. Bruce smiled, and his smile had the tone of the playboy he'd been called once.

"With pleasure."


End file.
